


Night on Night

by dreamlittleyo



Series: One Step Up 'Verse [2]
Category: Tron (Movies), Tron: Legacy (2010)
Genre: Aftermath, Age Difference, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Post-Movie(s), Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con References, Romance, Sexual Content, Wordcount:, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000, Wordcount: 5.000-15.000, Wordcount: Over 10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-17
Updated: 2011-04-17
Packaged: 2017-10-18 05:33:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Original sequel to <b><a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/185556">Another Battle in Our Dirty Little War</a></b>: After the Grid, Sam is determined to take his life back. His new feelings for Alan are a problem. The dreams he keeps having are worse.<br/></p><div class="center">
<br/><img/></div>
            </blockquote>





	Night on Night

Of course Alan responds to Sam's page.

He probably wonders why he's seeing that same disconnected number for a second time in as many days, but he shows up at the arcade anyway, and Sam's stomach tightens at the sight of him.

" _You_ paged me?" Alan says when he catches sight of Sam.

Sam tells Alan to be at Encom in the morning. He tells him it's time to take back the company. He doesn't tell him about Quorra, or the Grid, or finding his father just to lose him in one last world-ending explosion.

He _should_ tell Alan those things—some of them anyway—but it's all too fresh, and it feels too crazy, and Sam doesn't know if he'll _ever_ be ready to put it all into words.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

His body still aches in quiet, dangerous ways—even as the sun comes up and Quorra's arms hold warmly on to him from the back of his motorcycle—but when he gets home and looks in the mirror, there's no bruise on his throat. No marks where the restraining strands of light held him, no remnants of the minor injuries he sustained in the arena.

Memory, then. His body remembers. He wonders how long it will take to forget.

He lets Quorra take his bed that night, and sleeps on the low leather couch in what passes for his living room. His dreams are restless. His father, gray-haired and bearded and impossibly weary, watches him with disapproving eyes. Castor laughs through a toothy sneer. Gem looks on with quiet, malicious amusement, trailing a sparking finger over her own lower lip.

Clu. Rinzler. Their hands all over him.

Sam wakes silently, though his own choked-off cry still echoes in his head. It's close enough to morning that he throws the blanket aside and sits up, scrubbing tired hands across his face.

He wakes Quorra before he leaves for Encom, just to ask if she's all right. If she needs anything.

"Oh, go on already," she says, smiling sleepily and turning her face back into the pillow. "I promise not to make a mess while you're gone." Sam smiles despite himself, and pushes his bike outside before starting it up—there aren't exactly walls separating the 'bedroom' from the rest of the pad, and he doesn't want to jar her completely awake with the roar of the engine.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

He walks in the front door for the first time in years, and it takes him a few minutes to convince the Encom security guards to let him through. They obviously think he's up to something, but once he proves he is who he says he is there's not much they can do to stop him.

Sam rides the elevator to the top floor, then hesitates momentarily in the hall outside Alan's office.

Phantom fingers ghost his skin, and Sam steadies himself a moment. He forces those thoughts aside, and finally approaches the door. The knob turns smoothly beneath his hands, and he steps through, closes it behind him.

Alan's desk chair is empty. Alan stands by the window behind his desk instead, hands clasped behind his back, eyes on the city beyond.

"Good morning, Sam," Alan says, even before he turns around. When he finally shifts his weight and turns to look at Sam, there's a smile on his face that makes his eyes look brighter than usual.

"Morning, Alan," Sam says. His own smile is barely forced as he surveys the room.

He could sit in one of the guest chairs immediately in front of him. It would leave the whole length of Alan's desk between them, not to mention give Sam plenty of room to maneuver—but those are ridiculous thoughts, and Sam ignores them. For one thing, what could he possibly need to maneuver away _from_? This is Alan. There's no threat here.

This office is probably the safest place Sam has ever known.

For another thing, if Sam sits all the way over here, Alan will know something's up. In all times he's been in Alan's office, Sam has never sat in one of the chairs he's considering now.

So he crosses the room and rounds the desk instead—moves to Alan's side near the window and leans back on the edge of Alan's desk in what he hopes looks like a comfortable slouch. His fingers curl over the corners of tasteful mahogany, and he tries not to hold on too tightly.

Proximity to Alan doesn't bring the cold jolt to Sam's chest that he halfway expects. It's a warm pulse of something else instead, but once again Sam pushes the reaction aside. He can't think about it now.

"I wasn't sure you'd show," Alan admits, leaning one hip against the windowsill and crossing his arms. There's no judgment in his voice or his posture. Gratitude, maybe. And genuine relief. Plus a quiet spark of hope that makes the smile on Sam's face feel a little more honest.

"Well, you know me," Sam says with a shrug. "Once I really get it into my head to do something…"

Alan smiles wider, offering a quick flash of teeth, and Sam feels suddenly silly for all his apprehension in coming here this morning. Alan's presence calls forth none of the vivid memories Sam feared this meeting would inspire. His face is too open and expressive, not to mention human, and lined with years Rinzler's face has never seen. The glasses, the white hair, the suit and tie—all of it sets this moment sharply apart from the images wiggling at the back of Sam's mind, and he finds it easier than he expected to set the memories aside and focus on the here and now.

Not that the memories are going anywhere—not that Sam can detach from them entirely. He's looking at Alan differently now, much as he might not want to. He finds himself considering the precise knot of Alan's tie and the stiffly buttoned collar beneath it.

When Alan sets a warm hand on his shoulder, Sam flinches before he can stop himself. Alan takes his hand back quickly, looks hurt for an instant before his expression covers over in a more neutral look.

"There will be a lot of paperwork," Alan says, giving Sam a little extra space. "Not to mention a clusterfuck we'll have to wade through with legal and HR." Sam has to snort in surprise at that. He's pretty sure he's never heard Alan swear when he wasn't yelling directly at Sam—and even then, it only happened when Alan was scared well and truly shitless. This casual cursing heralds something, some subtle shift in their relationship, and Sam smiles despite himself.

"Believe it or not," Alan continues, genuine amusement returning to his features, "you can't just make me Chairman of the Board by willing it so. We have to go through the proper channels, call for a vote from the shareholders, comply with all the necessary corporate procedures. It's going to take time, Sam. And you're going to have to decide how directly you want to be involved. The company's already got a CEO."

Sam nods, but he doesn't have to pause to consider.

"I want all the way in, Alan. This is my dad's company. I'm done fucking around."

Silence settles between them, the kind that makes Sam wonder if Alan's got something more important to say. Sam could ask. He could break the silence. But he waits instead, and eventually Alan speaks.

"What did you find at the arcade?"

Sam is honestly surprised at the fact that Alan just asks him flat-out. Surprised enough that he doesn't have an answer at the ready and has to pause and carefully consider his words. He feels Alan's eyes on him, expectant and curious and—Sam realizes with a guilty twinge—a little bit heartbroken. Alan is waiting, and it occurs to Sam how selfish he's being. God, Alan was Kevin Flynn's best friend. His creative partner in crime. The man who took it upon himself to step in and try to be the father Sam couldn't have, when anyone else in their right mind would have—maybe should have—walked away.

If anyone has a right to know what happened, it's Alan.

But Sam knows damn well how crazy the truth would sound. He knows the only way to tell Alan the whole truth would be to show him the Grid. But the blinking backup drive Sam is still wearing around his neck feels heavy and damning, and Sam doesn't think he can bring himself to go back in. Not now. Maybe not ever. And he's not sending Alan in there alone, no matter how much Sam might have to prove.

Which means, much as Alan deserves the truth, Sam can't give it to him, so he opts for a reassuring lie instead.

"I found his notes. Crazy stuff. Half finished. Big ideas, you know? You were right about him. He _didn't_ just leave. Something happened to him."

Alan's face is blank now, but there's strain around his eyes. A dead, quiet sadness that even the most careful poker face can't blot out completely.

"Did you find out what?" Alan asks.

Sam nods, but he doesn't offer any further explanation. He can't bring himself to tell Alan a lie vivid enough to fill in these particular details. He can't concoct a dramatic story of his father's disappearance when the reality is something so impossible.

"He's dead," Alan realizes aloud. Sam's throat goes tight at the words. His blood rushes in his ears and his fingers tighten on the edge of the desk.

Fuck. His dad _is_ dead. He knew it already. He _saw_ it. But hearing the words is so much worse. Hearing the words from _Alan_ makes them undeniable.

Sam nods. He wants to say ' _I'm sorry_ ,' but his voice won't come.

This time when Alan touches his arm, Sam doesn't flinch away.

"I'm sorry, Sam," Alan says gruffly, and Sam feels like an asshole for the fact that Alan had to say it. Sam's not the one who should need comforting here. He got to say goodbye. Alan got nothing at all.

He surprises himself with how suddenly he moves—pushing off of the desk, getting his arms up around Alan's neck and shoulders, burying his face in the crisp collar of Alan's shirt. Alan taken aback for a moment—it's been so long since Sam hugged him he probably has no idea how to respond—but finally he raises his arms to return the gesture. His chin is a reassuring weight tucked over Sam's shoulder, and his hands are warm on Sam's back, and god, Alan smells _good_ —

And it's that thought that finally makes Sam pull back. He's careful not to move too abruptly—the last thing he wants is to make Alan think he's done something wrong—but he steps back and lets go, drops his arms to his sides and feels a self-conscious smile twist across his face as Alan does the same.

They stand there awkwardly for a moment, smiling but uncertain, and it's Alan that finally breaks the silence.

"Come on," he says. "We've got a lot of work to do."

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Sam dreams again that night. More vividly than the night before. He dreams Clu's smirking face, Clu's fingers tracing a teasing path down his jaw and throat. He dreams excited circuits and dissolving armor and a floor falling to pixels beneath him as someone jerks him to the side and puts him on his back.

That someone is Rinzler. No helmet. No armor. Smooth features, smooth skin, naked hands as he touches Sam everywhere.

' _Don't_ ,' Sam wants to say.

"More," is what actually comes out of his mouth.

He wakes feeling sick to his stomach and incredibly turned on, and he stands beneath the spray of the shower until the water turns cold and his hard-on fades untouched.

He can't quite look Alan in the eye that morning. If Alan notices, he doesn't comment as he guides Sam from one meeting to the next and the day passes in a blur.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

"Are you all right, Sam?" Quorra asks when he returns home for the evening.

She doesn't call him out directly, but he can tell from the look in her eyes that he doesn't dream as quietly as he would've hoped. He wonders what she's heard. He wonders how much she understands.

Quorra's eyes drift to the blank spot on Sam's throat where there should be a deep bruise broadcasting his shame, then jerk guiltily back up to his eyes.

"I'm fine," Sam lies. "How was your day?"

Quorra smiles. Tells him about the things she's learned just by trolling the internet—mountains of practical knowledge, even more information of the useless and trivial variety—the things she's discovered she can do with access to this side of a computer screen.

Sam laughs, genuine and distracted, and says, "You know, some of that is illegal." He should probably spend his next day off teaching Quorra about the real world and its rules.

"I do know," Quorra says, surprising him. She smirks and says, "But from what I understand, that only matters if you get caught."

Sam laughs again at that. He tries to shake his head disapprovingly, but it probably just ends up looking amused.

"Maybe so," he says. "But it's generally considered polite to obey the law anyway. Even if you know you can get away with bending the rules." He's a hypocrite and a half for saying so, but it feels like the only appropriate response. Besides, he's going to do better now. He's not going to risk getting in trouble when it might compromise his position at Encom.

Quorra looks skeptical, but she says, "Fine. Can I get a job, then?"

"Sure," Sam says, heading for the fridge. "Why not? If you want to work at Encom, I can probably swing something."

"No thanks," Quorra says, and when Sam throws a look over his shoulder he finds her wearing a mischievous smile. "I've already found a couple prospects."

Of course she has. She's been in the real world for two whole days already. Sam rolls his eyes, but he's still smiling as he asks, "What do you want for dinner?"

 

\- — - — - — - — -

In his dreams that night, Rinzler is fucking him. Sam's knees scrape the floor uncomfortably, his breath fogs the smooth surface, and he knows it's Rinzler from the red glowing circuits where a black-gloved hand pins his wrists to the floor.

His own circuits are on fire, his chest a mounting turmoil of heat and confusion and pleasure, and he can't fucking breathe.

Then there's a yellow-circuited boot stepping into Sam's field of vision, and Rinzler is going still inside him, and Sam cries out in shattered frustration as everything falls motionless.

Clu's voice is a seductive rumble—a familiar memory gone twisted and wrong—as he says, "Do you want more, Sam? Do you want him to finish?"

Sam grunts, inhales sharply, doesn't respond. But he doesn't have to respond. He's already given himself away. His hands clench into useless fists, wrists twisting vainly in Rinzler's hold, and then Clu kneels, brushing deceptively soft fingers through Sam's hair.

"Maybe if you ask nicely," Clu says.

' _Fuck you_ ,' Sam wants to say.

"Please," he gasps instead. "Fuck, _please_."

"That's a good boy," Clu murmurs approvingly. His fingers trace Sam's lips. His thumb slips into Sam's mouth. Sam barely notices, because Rinzler is moving again now, the sensations hitting Sam deep and hard, and he closes his eyes and groans.

He wakes and his neck hurts from sleeping at the wrong angle—he's getting sick of this couch. But he can't very well ask Quorra to share the bed, and he's too much of a gentleman to ask if they can take turns—and he sure as hell can't kick her out, so he keeps the grumbling to himself and tries to wash the discomfort away with a hot shower.

"I've got an interview today," Quorra says over breakfast. She's giving him a worried look again, but she clearly has no intention of voicing her concerns aloud.

"That's terrific," says Sam. "Do you need a ride?"

"No thanks," she says with a shake of her head. "The bus system's not that complicated."

"You'll need money for the fare," Sam says, already reaching for his wallet. "And for interview clothes."

"I've got it under control, Sam," Quorra says with a smug smile. Sam doesn't ask her how. He's probably better off not knowing.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Sam wouldn't want to be CEO even if he could have the position, and he's happy enough with the management post HR hands him after a round of cursory interviews.

Majority shareholder or not, Sam still has to jump through the right hoops if he's going to hold an actual position inside the company.

It's different than he expects. Even after only one day, he knows it's going to be a huge adjustment. Hell, he'd probably be happier in a cubicle coding software. But he can see the scope of the company from here. He's in a position with potential. And it's not like he _can't_ do programming work from the fancy-ass computer in his new office. He just needs to get the hang of a boatload of new managerial tasks while he's at it.

It occurs to him that he's woefully under-qualified, but he's always been good at figuring things out as he goes. Plus, he's got Alan.

As soon as he finds his feet, Sam's department will be the best there is—not to mention kicking everyone else's asses at the company softball games.

"Not much of an office," Alan jokes when he steps into the enormous space. The desk isn't as big as Alan's. Neither is the window. But all in all, the room is maybe six square feet smaller than Alan's, and Sam grins as he stands from his chair—as he meets Alan's eyes, mostly steadily, and moves around the desk.

"It'll look better once I've had the bank of arcade games installed along that wall, don't you think?" Sam says. He's kidding. Mostly. He's pretty sure.

He doesn't play the classics anymore, anyway. It never felt right after his dad disappeared. Can't play on the same team with a man who's vanished into thin air.

"Oh, certainly," Alan agrees gamely.

"What can I do for you, Alan?"

"Just thought I'd stop down and see where they stuck you. I'm glad they gave you a window. Do me a favor and don't try parachuting out of it, okay?" Sam snorts. Alan smiles and adds, "I also wanted to see if you were hungry. We could grab something to eat."

"I'd like that," Sam says.

He detours to grab his suit coat off the back of his chair—he never wears the damn thing once he's inside the building, and he'll probably stop bringing it entirely once he's a little more comfortable with his position.

"Where do you want to eat?" Alan asks as he gestures towards the door.

"That depends," Sam says, spine tingling when his arm brushes Alan's on his way across the room. "Are you buying?"

 

\- — - — - — - — -

He dreams that night and doesn't even wait for Clu to goad him into begging.

He begs right from the start. He begs until they're both inside him, both moving, and he can't decide who he's looking at. It's Clu's face one moment, Rinzler's the next, flickering and indecisive. It's Rinzler when Sam feels a demanding mouth suck bruising kisses into his throat—then a sharp sting of teeth teasing the spot before lips and tongue sooth the pain away.

Then Rinzler is drawing back, but his hair has gone white and his gaze is warm and there are crinkles around his eyes, and _fuck_ , Sam gasps aloud, groans as Alan's hands tighten on his hips, as Clu's weight bears him down harder on Alan's cock—

And then the alarm on Sam's phone goes off, piercing his brain and telling him it's time to wake up and make his way to the shower.

He doesn't jerk off beneath the spray, though his erection is even slower to wilt than usual.

He leans against the tile, head dropping forward heavily, and he swears colorfully under his breath.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

"How did your interview go?" Sam asks between bites of Frosted Flakes.

Quorra blinks at him, smiles brightly.

"It went well. I have another one this afternoon." That explains the button-up shirt and the snazzy dress pants. Sam's pretty sure Quorra didn't own those yesterday.

"Good for you," Sam says, taking another loud bite of cereal. He feels a little useless, honestly. Like he should be doing more—helping more—but Quorra obviously doesn't need his help. And when Sam stops to think about it, he's grateful. His own plate is plenty full right now without having to play guidance counselor for Quorra in a world he's barely figured out how to live in himself.

He thinks about asking where she's interviewing, what kinds of jobs she's interviewing _for_ , but decides against it. If she hasn't already said, then she probably doesn't plan to until she's good and ready.

He's curious how she managed to put together a convincing resume when she's only existed in this world for a matter of days. He wonders what kind of a paper trail she laid to make it look like she's got a personal history and all the appropriate experience. It had to be good if she's landing interviews at all, never mind this fast.

She squeezes his shoulder on her way to the sink. Sam flinches a little at the unexpected touch, but relaxes quickly enough.

If she notices, Quorra doesn't comment.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Sam settles in at Encom faster than he expects.

Faster than _anyone_ expects, honestly, if the grudging respect of his coworkers and underlings is anything to go by. He's not great at the interpersonal skills that his new position of authority requires, but everything else—the organizing, the delegating, the paperwork and processes of running an entire department in a company the size of Encom—all that comes easily enough once Sam understands the framework.

People also figure out quickly that he doesn't like to be touched. No one claps him casually on the shoulder or nudges him with unexpected elbows or punches him jokingly in the arm.

No one except Alan, though sometimes Sam sees a question behind the man's eyes wondering if this is still okay. A word from Sam, even just a disapproving look, would make him back off, and the thought leaves Sam's chest unpleasantly tight.

Alan's casual touches might make his pulse jump unpredictably—they might send strange and indecipherable sensations swirling in Sam's stomach—but if they suddenly stopped, Sam's pretty sure he would crawl right out of his own skin.

So he maintains a façade of easy calm when Alan is near. He tries not to stare at Alan's hands, his mouth, the dip of his throat when he loosens his tie towards the end of the day and pops the top couple of buttons on his collar.

"You're doing good work, you know," Alan tells him once, and Sam has to forcibly drag his eyes up from where Alan is rolling his sleeves back. "I don't think they saw that coming."

"Good," Sam says with a cocky grin. "After so many years being outsmarted, you'd think they'd give me a little credit. God, I thought Dillinger was going to pee himself at last week's department strategy meeting."

Alan laughs and it brightens his whole face, leaves Sam feeling winded and wrong.

"Want to grab a bite to eat before you head home?" Alan asks.

God, Sam wants to say yes. But the idea leaves his nerves jangling anxiously, and he wonders if accepting Alan's invitation would put him on a path to doing something irreparably stupid. He's staring too hard lately. He's on his way to becoming obsessed, and the dreams aren't helping—god, it's all he can do lately to look Alan in the face and not give himself away.

"Thanks, but I can't," Sam says, after a pause that borders on awkward. "I promised Quorra I'd bring takeout. She's on a Thai food kick this week."

Sam hasn't told Alan who Quorra really is. Just that she's staying with him for a while. Just that she's special and smart and needed a place to crash.

"Some other time then," says Alan. He might look disappointed, but that could just be wishful thinking.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Sam _does_ grab takeout on his way home. He wasn't lying about the Thai food kick. Quorra smiles like she knew he wouldn't let her down, and they spread cartons across the small table and eat without plates.

"I've decided which job to take," Quorra says out of the blue.

"Oh, yeah?" Sam says between bites of curry. "Are you finally going to tell me something about it?"

Quorra smiles, looks a little bit sheepish. "I'm going to be a project coordinator for a company called ParaCorps."

"That's Encom's biggest competitor," Sam says. He's not sure whether to be offended or amused.

"I know," says Quorra, eyes cutting guiltily to the side. "Please don't take it personally. It's a fantastic position. And it pays well. I'll finally be able to get my own place and give you your bed back."

Sam startles at that. Quorra's only been staying with him for three weeks, but already he's begun to think of her as a permanent fixture in his life. A roommate. It will be strange suddenly having this place to himself again.

"You don't need to rush out of here on my account," Sam says. His throat feels suddenly dry.

Quorra smiles, humoring and warm, and says, "I'm not. You've been wonderful to me, Sam. Don't think for a second that you'll be rid of me this easily. But… I need to get out there. I need to see what it's like."

"I guess you do," Sam agrees reluctantly. She's his father's miracle, after all. Even if Sam still can't figure out what that's supposed to entail.

"Will you help me look for a place?" Quorra asks.

It's obviously a peace offering. Sam knows damn well she doesn't need his help. But he smiles and nods, and doesn't pretend he feels anything but grateful.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

When Alan steps into Sam's office and closes the door—late on a Wednesday, past the hour when most employees have headed home—Sam wonders why the expression on his face is so uncomfortably serious.

Then Alan _locks_ the door, and Sam is pretty sure he's not going to like whatever Alan has to say.

"Everything all right, Alan?" Sam asks. His voice sounds hesitant, and he curses inwardly. He slides his chair back but doesn't stand as Alan crosses the room and rounds the desk, stopping in front of the window with his hands in his pockets.

Alan doesn't look at Sam when he says, "I came to ask _you_ that question, actually."

Sam blinks in surprise and says, "Seriously?"

"I'm not trying to pry," Alan says without taking his eyes off the window. "I just. I'm worried about you. So I have to ask. Are you okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be okay?" Sam hedges. His pulse is already rushing in his ears. He isn't ready for this conversation. He doesn't think he ever will be.

Alan doesn't respond immediately, but he doesn't have to. There's too much understanding in the quiet of the room. Sam knows damn well why Alan is asking this question. He knows he's different since he got back from the Grid, and it's not just Encom. It's the way he doesn't like to be touched, the way he doesn't let people stand too close, the way he gets cautious and jumpy and quiet whenever he lets his guard down.

Sam's trying to find some flip response that will chop this conversation short, but his voice freezes in his throat when Alan finally turns from the window and locks Sam in his vivid, piercing gaze.

"Sam, did someone hurt you?"

Sam's chest constricts and he has to consciously remind himself to breathe.

He wants to lie. Christ, he wants to brush aside Alan's question and never touch it again, because suddenly his insides are squirming, his skin feels too tight, his face is flushing with harsh, renewed shame, and everything hurts.

He can't keep looking at Alan, so he stares at his desk instead. Papers lie strewn across the surface, carefully monitored chaos to which only Sam holds the key, but his eyes don't take in the words on those pages. The world is blurry and out of focus, and Sam doesn't know what to say.

He can't lie to Alan. Not about this.

"Yes," Sam finally says, embarrassed at the way his voice sounds. The word comes out gritty and hurt, and Sam coughs, sounds stronger when he says, "But it's not your problem, okay? I've got it under control."

Alan doesn't offer an immediate retort, and Sam finally braces himself enough to turn and raise his head. He finds Alan watching him.

There's no pity in Alan's eyes, at least. Sam doesn't think he could take pity from Alan.

"If there's anything I can do—"

"No," says Sam. Too quickly, but Alan doesn't look offended. "I appreciate it, but this is my mess to deal with." He wants to say ' _It's got nothing to do with you_ ,' but that's close enough to a lie that he can't bring himself to voice the words.

"You'll tell me if you change your mind," Alan says, and it's more a statement than a question.

"Yes," says Sam, feeling small and anxious under Alan's intense scrutiny.

"And if you need to talk about anything," Alan presses without breaking eye contact. "Any time, Sam. No matter how busy I look. Just say the word, and everything else stops."

For the first time in this entire, impossible conversation, Sam's eyes sting, and his voice sounds unmistakably choked-up when he says, "Thanks."

Alan nods. Watches him for another slow, considering moment. Then finally, quietly, turns and leaves Sam's office.

He closes the door behind him, despite Sam's usual policy of leaving it propped open and approachable.

Sam takes a couple ragged breaths as he waits for his pulse to even out, and finally shuts his computer down.

He's not getting any more work done tonight.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Quorra moves out on a Thursday, and Sam takes the day off work to help her settle in to her new digs.

It's a pricey looking twentieth-floor apartment, across the bay from Sam's place, and the view through Quorra's new living room window is pretty much staggering. The city stretches wide and glinting in the sunset, and Sam smiles.

"You're gonna love this view come nightfall."

Quorra returns his smile. Then, moving slowly enough for him to deflect her if he wants to, she steps in and hugs him.

"Thank you, Sam," she says. She doesn't just mean for his help choosing furniture. She means for everything. Sam returns the embrace, holding her tightly and wondering what happens now. His father's words still echo in his head. ' _Bio-digital jazz, man_.' If they're really supposed to change the world, Sam remains stumped as to how.

But he doesn't worry about that now. The fact that she's here at all is miracle enough.

Quorra's eyes are somber when she steps out of his arms, and Sam suddenly feels like he's bracing for an attack.

"What is it?" he asks.

"Sam, whatever happened on the Grid… If you need to talk about it—"

"Thank you," Sam cuts her off sharply. Then, softer, "But I'm fine."

Quorra looks skeptical. It's the closest Sam has come yet to telling her a lie. But it's not complete bullshit, either. Time is passing, and Sam is determined. It's only a matter of time before he gets his shit together.

Or before he has a total meltdown. But either way there's not much Quorra can do about it. All Sam can do is keep existing, and that's exactly what he plans to do.

Quorra gives him her spare key and tells him the code for the building's front door. Sam hugs her again on his way out, and wonders what it will be like sleeping in an empty apartment tonight.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Even now that he's back in his own bed, Sam dreams.

It's Rinzler tonight. There's no sign of Clu. But Sam is begging for it anyway, arching his back against the floor, trying to urge the program faster, deeper, harder. Rinzler's helmet folds back and he kisses Sam, tongue sliding deep and possessive, as Rinzler's hands dig bruises into Sam's hips—as Rinzler fucks him with an unrelenting rhythm that takes Sam apart at the seams.

He wakes spent and sticky that morning, and as he showers clean he wonders just how much longer he can keep this up.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

He finds his stride at Encom, settles into the routine his life has become.

He enjoys it more than he would've expected. There's something comforting in the existence of routine where before he set his own hours, made his own chaos, did whatever he pleased.

It feels like having direction for the first time. Purpose. And maybe that's exactly what it is.

The dreams finally begin to fade. He still wakes up sticky and uncomfortable as often as not, but there are nights between when he dreams nothing at all. There are mornings he wakes feeling rested instead of exhausted and aroused, and those mornings become more and more frequent as weeks turn into months and the Grid finally drifts from the forefront of Sam's mind.

He still doesn't like to be touched by anyone but Quorra and Alan.

He likes being touched by Alan a little too much, and he hates himself for the way his fixation drags undeniably into obsession.

"Sam, what's wrong?" Alan's question shatters the quiet of the office—Alan's office—and Sam realizes he's been staring at Alan's hands for nearly five straight minutes.

It's not his fault. How's he supposed to focus on anything else when Alan's got his sleeves rolled up halfway to his elbows—his tie discarded across the basket of incoming memos, his shirt four buttons undone and gaping casually at his throat. It's well past ten—well past closing time—and the only reason Sam is still here working is because Alan asked for an extra set of eyes on Dillinger's newest proposal. Sam always knew Alan was a workaholic, but he's coming to realize now that the man single-handedly defines the term.

"Nothing's wrong," Sam covers, quick and unconvincing. He meets Alan's eyes guiltily, but Alan's expression conveys only quiet concern. Alan straightens slightly in his chair beside Sam, and there are questions in his eyes.

Sam coughs, embarrassed and uncomfortable, and says, "I guess I didn't realize it had gotten so late. I should, uh. I should probably go."

"Sam—"

"We can pick this up again Monday, right?" Sam says, cutting his eyes to the side as he stands and trying to find anywhere to look besides Alan. "I know there's more documentation to go through, but—"

"Sam," Alan repeats, standing from his own chair.

Sam raises his eyes just long enough to say, "Good night, Alan," and turns to go.

He makes it three steps before Alan's hand closes around his bicep and stops him short. Sam's breath catches in his throat, and suddenly his face feels hot, and he needs to get out of here, fuck, he needs to _move_ before he does something monumentally stupid. But he can't bring himself to shake free from Alan's touch.

"Sam, please," Alan says without letting go. "If I did something wrong—"

Sam doesn't let him finish. He spins on his heel, turning in Alan's hold, his pulse a ragged racket in his ears as he slides his fingers along Alan's jaw and tugs him into a kiss.

It's nothing like Sam expects. Alan's lips are warm and soft beneath Sam's—shattering contrast to the cool, unyielding memory of Rinzler's mouth—and Sam can taste a hint of sugar from the can of soda he knows Alan just finished drinking.

Alan doesn't kiss him back. But it takes him long enough to push Sam away that Sam starts to wonder if he's considering it.

Reality clatters back into his head like an avalanche when Alan's hands force him back, and Sam's head spins with curses and panic. _Fuck_ , he just kissed Alan. He just gave the game away, and Alan is staring at him now with wide eyes, shock and disbelief drawing his face slack, and Sam yanks his hands away sharply, guiltily, and feels the moment stretch frozen and horrified between them.

"Sam," Alan starts to say, but Sam doesn't want to hear it. The sound of his name breaks the spell, unfreezes his feet, and Sam flees the room and doesn't look back.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

He rides for hours, letting the familiar rumble of his bike ground him. Pavement rushes past in the sharp headlight beam, and Sam grips the handlebars tightly.

With the world moving around him in a rough, rapid blur, Sam can almost hear himself think.

He kissed Alan.

Fuck. He kissed _Alan_. The thought ricochets messily—desire and chaos and embarrassment a jumble in his head. Embarrassment because he just outed himself undeniably—there's nothing he can say to cover what he just did. He can't laugh it off when Alan walks into his office on Monday. He can't un-remember the look of shocked comprehension in Alan's eyes, and neither of them lies well enough to pretend it never happened.

But the desire is a stubborn hum beneath his skin—a wash of stupid, shameless hope that maybe Sam's not the only one wanting things he shouldn't. Maybe Alan would've pushed him away instantly but for an ember of matching interest.

Sam knows better than to hope. But his chest aches anyway. He presses his bike faster and watches the streetlights zip by.

And underneath it all, Sam can't deny that he feels a quiet, all too rational pulse of fear.

He's not afraid of Alan. He doesn't think he ever could be. But his feelings for the man are twisted around—they're tied up in his memories of the Grid—and Sam fears _himself_ a little when he considers how suddenly these new urges arose. When he considers that it's only since the Grid, and the dreams that followed, that he's started looking at Alan this way.

Maybe it's unforgivably fucked up that he's attracted to Alan now. Maybe it doesn't even matter if Alan returns his interest—how can anything good come of what happened to him on the Grid?

But gradually the yellow lines flying past offer their own peculiar brand of calm. Sam feels the panic recede in his chest, feels his hold on the handlebars of his bike turn to something less desperate. The night is dark and protective around him, a blanket of anonymous city noise, and when clarity hits him, it's with a jolt so sudden his breath catches in his throat.

It doesn't matter _where_ his feelings for Alan came from.

His feelings for Alan are there. They're undeniable. If Sam could shut them down by force of will, he'd have done it by now.

Which means he has to accept them as a given and move on from there.

What matters, then, is that he trusts Alan. Alan is the one constant Sam has always been able to rely on, and that's not going to change now. No matter what happens—no matter how badly Sam fucked up tonight—that's never going to change.

Sam signals and turns onto a side street, braking slowly and finally coming to a stop near the curb.

Trusting Alan doesn't mean Sam's _not_ an idiot. It doesn't mitigate the stark, glaring reality that Sam just gave himself away, completely and undeniably.

It sure as hell doesn't save him from the fact that Monday is going to be awkward as hell, no matter how he swings his apology.

Sam revs his engine and pulls a u-turn, aiming his bike towards home.

What he needs right now is a drink.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

The bar is crowded and noisy, not to mention a mere six blocks from his apartment, and Sam waves down the waiter from the booth he's been haunting in the corner.

The waiter wordlessly deposits another glass of beer. Sam's not sure how many he's had. Not quite enough to quiet the mess of his thoughts, but plenty to dull the world to a blurry racket around him.

When he catches sight of Alan through the crowd, it occurs to him that he probably should've gone somewhere a little less predictable.

Too late for that now, though. Alan has spotted him, is moving straight for Sam's table, and there's nowhere for Sam to escape discreetly. It's not like he can put this conversation off forever, anyway. Alan's not the type to let something this huge simply fade unspoken behind them.

Alan reaches Sam's booth and hangs his jacket on the peg built in beside it. He slides into the seat across from Sam, shakes his head at the approaching waiter, then turns on Sam with a curious, piercing look.

"Well," says Sam. "Fuck. What can I do for you, Alan?" He feels suddenly grateful for the dulling influence of the alcohol. It's leaving him numb to the awkward panic he's sure he'd be feeling otherwise.

He notices Alan looks buttoned-up and proper now. He's put his tie back on, and his suit coat, and Sam wonders if it's Alan's way of armoring up for a difficult conversation. Sam wouldn't blame him.

"You can tell me what's going on in your head right now," Alan answers blandly.

"Is that your ass-backwards way of asking why I kissed you tonight?" Sam asks. His voice sounds resigned. He can't seem to muster the energy for anything more confrontational.

To his credit, Alan doesn't back down. He meets Sam's stare without flinching, and says, "Yes."

Sam shrugs, feigning a nonchalance he doesn't feel.

"You have to have noticed by now," he says. "I've never been good at playing it subtle when I want something." He's pretty sure he's supposed to be hedging and evading right now. Not confessing. But the voice of reason is silent in his head, giving ground to the quiet frustration that's had weeks too long to build beneath his skin.

Alan looks uncomfortable now. Thrown off by Sam's candor. Maybe he was expecting Sam to come up with some bullshit story that would let them pretend this away after all.

But it's too late for that. Sam's eyes drop to the tabletop, where the fingers of his right hand are pressed flat against the wood, and he inhales slowly.

"Have you ever thought about it, Alan?" he asks.

"Thought about what?" Alan responds, though there's too much awareness in the words. He's being evasive. He still thinks Sam will shy away from crossing that line. But Sam's done shying away tonight. He raises his eyes instead—locks Alan in a bold stare—and says the words neither of them expects to hear.

"About fucking me," he says.

The silence that settles between them is instantaneous and stunned. Alan's eyes flash wide behind his glasses, his jaw drops in disbelief, and Sam feels a guilty thrill at the fact that the man clearly has no idea how to respond.

He's not saying no. That alone makes something dangerously close to hope flare in Sam's chest.

"I'd let you," Sam says into the raucous silence. "Hell, I wouldn't just let you. I'd beg you to do it." He would. He fucking knows it. He'd beg Alan to touch him, and he'd mean every desperate word.

Alan looks sharply away then. The fingers of the hand he's got resting on the table tighten into a fist, and his throat works in a swallow, his jaw twitching in what Sam recognizes as surprise.

Of course he's surprised. Hell, Sam is surprised, too. He didn't order his first beer tonight figuring on propositioning Alan. He mostly just planned on getting wasted and stumbling home and trying to sleep without dreaming.

"You don't mean that," Alan says without raising his eyes.

"Don't tell me what I mean, Alan."

Sam briefly considers slipping out of the booth, slipping into place on Alan's side of the table. They've got enough privacy here. Sam could get his hands on Alan without drawing unwanted attention. He could prove he's serious. He could make Alan give him a straight answer.

But he knows what would happen then. Win the battle, lose the war—everything would be fucked even worse than it already is. Even if Alan is interested, he won't give in to Sam tonight. Sam is well and truly intoxicated, and they both know it. There's no way Alan will touch Sam—never mind fuck him—if he doubts Sam's ability to give genuine consent.

And if Sam pushes the issue now, he might well push Alan away forever.

So he sighs and drops his chin into his hand. Looks up at Alan even though Alan is still stubbornly refusing to meet his eyes.

"Can we maybe not do this tonight?" Sam says tiredly. "It's late. I'm exhausted. Not to mention really, _really_ drunk. Let's just… start fresh some other time, okay?"

Alan nods, still without looking at him. A beat passes. Two. A third moment stretching awkwardly and silently, and finally Alan turns to regard Sam with a carefully blank expression.

"Do you need a ride home?"

"Hell no," Sam says with a laugh. "There's a reason I chose a bar six blocks from my apartment."

"Okay," Alan says warily. "I guess… good night, then."

"Good night, Alan."

Sam watches Alan go, and wonders how hard he'll find himself freaking out about this come morning.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

He doesn't dream that night. He _does_ wake up with the Hangover From the Black Lagoon, and even once the aspirin dulls his headache his stomach is still a mess of unsettled knots.

He knows eating something will help, but he can't bring himself to look at food, let alone swallow it.

He brushes his teeth at least, then takes a shower and feels better for it.

He emerges from the bathroom barefoot but almost entirely dressed, tugging a t-shirt over his head, and finds Alan in his living room staring determinedly in the other direction.

"Sorry," Alan mutters. "I probably should've knocked."

"Probably," says Sam. He heads for the fridge—thinks maybe he can safely handle a glass of orange juice at this point—and adds, "Want anything to drink?"

"No. I just… wanted to check up on you." Which is how Sam knows he scared the crap out of Alan last night. There's no way he'd be standing in Sam's apartment, 'checking up', if he had any idea what else to do.

Sam feels guilty enough that he keeps his back turned the entire time he's pouring the orange juice.

God, he really knows how to make a mess out of things. Leave it to a Flynn to tear the world to pieces when things were going just fine the way they were. Alan is still watching him when Sam finally turns around with his juice in hand, and Sam squares his jaw and does his best not to flinch under the intensity of that look.

"How are you feeling?" Alan asks in a quiet, neutral voice. He hasn't even taken his trench coat off.

"Moronic," Sam admits. "Nauseous. I'm sorry about last night."

Alan's mouth presses into a thin line, tense and considering, and then he turns away. He sits awkwardly down on the couch, with his elbows on his knees and his back hunched tiredly forward.

"I know alcohol can make people say stupid things," Alan finally says, and it's all Sam can do not to choke on his orange juice. "Things they'd never say when they're sober. Things they don't mean."

Sam recognizes an out when he sees one. He knows exactly what Alan is doing. And just as sure as he recognizes the offered escape, he knows he can't accept it. His cards are all on the table now. Hiding them again will only postpone the inevitable.

Sam sets his glass down and moves forward on unsteady legs. The couch creaks quietly beneath him when he sits beside Alan—mirrors his posture—and Sam worries his lower lip between his teeth for a moment before he manages to speak.

"I meant every word, Alan." He hears Alan's breath catch, but otherwise there's nothing but silence, and Sam adds, "Well. Every word I remember. Which I'm pretty sure is most of them."

Alan continues to hold his tongue, and Sam should probably shut up now, but he's in too far. He's not sure how to stop.

"And you never did answer my question," Sam points out, surprised at how steady his voice sounds.

"What question?" Alan asks, and this time there's genuine confusion in his voice. He's clearly spent all night shoving their previous conversation into a box and burying it, and Sam feels a nervous stutter in his chest at the thought that he might be about to fuck things up all over again. Maybe worse than before.

But he asks the question anyway. He has to. He turns to Alan, sees the man's anxious profile, and knows he has to ask.

"Have you ever thought about it?"

Alan doesn't answer for so long that Sam wonders if he's even going to. And suddenly Sam is terrified that this is all just on him—that he's going to spend the rest of his life feeling this sick, unrequited _thing_ for Alan, both of them pretending things are fine when they'll never be right again.

Then Alan says, "No," and his voice shakes so much on the syllable that Sam knows. Relief sings instantly in his chest and he has the ridiculous urge to smile.

"You're a terrible liar," he says. Then shifts, folds one knee up on the couch so he can face Alan directly—so he can reach out and cup Alan's chin and make Alan _look_ at him—and this time when Sam kisses him, Alan doesn't push him away.

Alan's lips part for Sam's tongue, and though he doesn't reach out to touch, he still reciprocates. He presses into the kiss, tilts his head obligingly and lets Sam take the kiss deeper.

"How did you know?" Alan asks when Sam sits back and drops his hand.

"I didn't."

"Then why—?"

"Because I'm losing it," Sam admits. "I can't stop thinking about you. It's… getting to be a problem."

"Jesus, Sam," Alan breathes, still looking more anxious than Sam would like. "And you couldn't have just _said_ something?"

Sam has serious doubts about just how much good that would've done him, stubborn as Alan can be, but it doesn't seem fair to voice those concerns. Alan's as turned around as he is right now. Antagonizing him won't get Sam what he wants.

"I wasn't really planning on you finding out any time soon," Sam admits, shrugging sheepishly. "Or, you know… ever. Anyway, _you_ never said anything either."

Alan gives him a disbelieving look, dry and skeptical, and Sam rolls his eyes.

"Okay, yeah, fine," Sam says. "Never mind." Of course Alan couldn't say anything. From where Alan is sitting, everything about this is wrong. Sam's lucky the man's even looking at him right now, let alone humoring this conversation. "So," Sam continues, rubbing at the back of his neck with one hand. "What now?"

Alan looks away from him, then, eyes settling on the closed panes of the garage door that comprises the apartment's far wall.

"I think that's for you to decide," Alan says. The carefully neutral expression on his face says he's not comfortable weighing in with an answer, and Sam supposes he can't blame Alan for that, either.

"Do you have anywhere you need to be right now?" Sam asks.

"No," Alan answers without raising his eyes.

"Then how about you take me to bed and we figure it out from there?"

Alan _does_ look at him then, sharp and sudden and a little disbelieving. Like he thinks Sam is joking. Or bluffing. Or anything at all besides serious. Sam stares at him stubbornly, and Alan blinks as comprehension settles in.

"Isn't that moving a little fast?" he asks.

"Come on, Alan." Sam smiles, bright and a little self-deprecating. "You know me. When have I ever moved any other way?" When Alan still looks skeptical, Sam leans in close and presses a light kiss to Alan's jaw. "Come to bed, Alan. If you're going to freak out about this, you can always do it later. I'd rather have my way with you first."

Alan laughs at that, breathy and disbelieving, and even after the smile falls from his face, Sam knows he's won.

"You're serious," says Alan. Still checking, still testing the water like he doesn't dare trust it, but he's already given in. He won't say no again.

Sam reaches forward and undoes Alan's tie—tugs it free from the crisp fold of Alan's collar and tosses it carelessly aside—and then starts right in on Alan's buttons.

"You realize this is a bad idea," Alan points out, even as he starts unbuttoning his own cuffs.

"Oh, an epically bad idea," Sam agrees gamely. "A complete scandal." He leans in to press a kiss to the hollow of Alan's throat. "But I can keep a secret if you can."

He tugs Alan up from the couch then, and Alan follows, shrugging carelessly out of his coat and reaching for his glasses as he follows Sam towards the bed.

"Hey," Sam says disapprovingly, eyes following Alan's hands. "Why are you taking those off?"

"They're more trouble than they're worth," Alan informs him, setting the folded frames aside on Sam's dresser. "Trust me." And then he cuts off Sam's protest with a kiss, warm and soft, and Sam stops trying to argue the point. He's too busy unbuttoning the rest of Alan's shirt, trailing his hands over the smooth angles of Alan's chest, the pale scattering of gray hair, the surprisingly firm planes of his stomach.

And then the backs of Sam's knees hit the edge of the bed, and he drops smoothly down onto the mattress.

Alan looks down at him with blatant awe in his eyes, and the expression makes Sam's blood heat and his face flush with a surreal mix of excitement and embarrassment. He reaches for the hem of his t-shirt, wraps his fingers in the thin cotton material, and drags it over his head.

When the material is out of the way and Sam raises his eyes, Alan looks even more winded than before.

Sam goes for Alan's belt buckle next. He likes the way the gesture makes Alan's eyes go wide and brings an honest-to-god blush to his cheeks. The leather makes a soft, slick sound as Sam pulls it free from the belt loops, and then there are buttons beneath Sam's fingers, and the snick of Alan's zipper, falling fabric—and then Sam is shifting farther up the bed, shimmying out of his own jeans and boxers along the way.

Alan follows. He lets Sam tug him down, and there's nothing at all between them now. Alan's hands are warm and reverent, not to mention _everywhere_ , and Sam lets his own hands wander as he settles back into the pillows with Alan's kiss parting his lips and Alan's weight bearing him down against the mattress.

Fuck, Sam's already so hard he can't stand it, and they've barely gotten started.

When Alan sneaks a hand between them and circles his fingers around Sam's dick, it's nearly too much and Sam throws his head back in a low gasp.

"Fuck, wait," he growls. " _Wait_." He's not ready to come yet. He wants to make this last.

But the message must get scrambled, because instead of simply stopping, Alan yanks his hand away like touching Sam scalded him. He props himself up on his elbows, looks like he's half a second from crawling right off of Sam and starting in on some off-kilter apology.

Sam gets his hands on Alan's arms and holds on tighter than he should—tight enough to convey the point that if Alan retreats now, Sam is going to be incredibly pissed off.

Alan stares down at him, eyes wide, breath coming shallow and fast, and he says, "Sam, if you're not—"

"I _am_ ," Sam cuts him off. "For god's sake, Alan, do you honestly think I'd have jumped you and ripped your clothes off if I wasn't sure I wanted this?"

"Then why—"

"Because I want it to last more than thirty seconds, okay?" Heat floods Sam's face at the admission, but he's already flushed as hell, and anyway, so what if Alan knows Sam's too hot for him to maintain an ounce of stamina? Isn't that sort of the point?

For a split second he's afraid Alan won't believe him. And then a disbelieving smile is spreading across Alan's face, and Alan shakes his head, relief and laughter shining in his eyes.

"You are something else, you know that?"

"I try," says Sam. "So are you going to fuck me, or what?"

Alan's face falls somber, though he makes no move to pull away.

"Are you sure?" His fingers are moving in idle patterns on Sam's skin, so minutely he probably doesn't even notice he's doing it. "Sam, we don't have to do that now. It might be smarter not to rush into things."

"Smarter," Sam concedes. "But a lot less fun." And then, without breaking eye contact, he reaches over the side of the bed, for the top drawer of his bedside bureau. The drawer opens with a soft scrape, and Sam barely has to fumble before his hand closes on his objective.

He lets the drawer slide shut, then uses his thumb to click open the cap on the small, discreet tube.

"Oh," Alan breathes.

"Gimme your hand," says Sam.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

He expects Alan to take it slow, but it still surprises him how carefully—how gently—Alan moves.

By the time Alan stops prepping him and finally slides in, Sam is just about ready to tear the whole damn apartment down. Then Alan moves. And even though it's slow—steady, measured movements as Alan presses easy kisses to Sam's throat—the rhythm gets under Sam's skin and leaves him clinging hard enough he's probably leaving bruises on Alan's shoulders.

" _Fuck_ ," he breathes, body arching eagerly, head thrown back on an involuntary groan. "Jesus, you can— Fuck, Alan, I can take more, come on."

Alan relents a little, but not much. He shifts between Sam's legs, gets his hands on Sam's thighs and thrusts in at a slightly different angle—a little faster, a little harder. Sam rolls his hips, rocks up into every thrust, and Alan reclaims his mouth in a kiss that's more uncoordinated chaos than skill.

Sam feels like he's been close for hours—god, he's got no idea how long it's actually been—and he can feel the orgasm building in his blood, desperate and sharp and maddening.

"God, Alan," he gasps. He manages to convince one of his hands to release its desperate hold, and traces his fingers down Alan's chest, down his ribs and stomach. Sam reaches for his own erection where it's trapped between them—where the friction isn't quite enough.

He's not sure how Alan manages to intercept him. One second he's reaching, the next his wrist is pinned to the mattress beside his head and Alan is—abruptly—not kissing him anymore.

"Don't you fucking dare," Alan growls. His voice is possessive gravel, the curse a sharp emphasis that sends a flare of heat curling low in Sam's gut.

Right. Because he needed to be _more_ turned on right now. Fuck.

"Please," Sam whispers. "God, Alan, please." He knows he's begging, and he doesn't goddamn care. He knew all along he might come to this. "I need—"

"I know what you need," Alan cuts him off, gentle but determined.

And he kisses Sam again. Deep and deliberate. He maps the contours of Sam's mouth with his tongue, even though he must have the terrain memorized by now, and Sam moans into the kiss. He rocks against Alan's body, urging him to motion, and Alan complies.

Alan also reaches down with his other hand—the one _not_ currently occupied higher up on the bed—and curls his fingers around the eager length of Sam's dick.

Sam's hips stutter sharply and a low grunt escapes his throat. Alan's touch is confident and smooth as he begins to stroke Sam in time with each thrust. He doesn't break the kiss, though he gasps sharply enough that Sam knows they're both getting close.

Sam feels his own orgasm mounting like a wave, ragged and hungry and bright, and when it hits him—seconds before Alan's, if the way Alan breaks from the kiss and buries his face against Sam's throat is any indication—Sam shouts something that might be Alan's name.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

He's slow to come down. He always is after an orgasm that good. Sam shifts a little, feeling a sated, slick, open sensation—deep inside, where Alan's cock was until a matter of minutes ago—and smiles.

"Jesus, Alan," Sam murmurs, already drowsy with satisfaction. "I figured you'd know what to do. Didn't think you'd turn out to be some kind of sex god."

He's pretty sure Alan blushes at the compliment, but it's hard to tell when Alan is already shifting off of him—when Alan is moving to lie beside Sam instead of on top of him, dropping onto his back with a tired, "Oof."

Sam gives him all of a moment to settle, then curls unapologetically along Alan's side and sets his hand high on Alan's chest. His eyes feel like they're drifting shut of their own volition, and Sam breathes a low, satisfied sigh.

"You're going to sleep _now_?" Alan's voice jars him, but not enough to make him open his eyes. "Sam, it's almost noon."

"Don't care," Sam mumbles. "Sex makes me sleepy, and I doubt you got any more rest than I did last night." Then, even though Alan is settling down cooperatively enough, Sam adds, "You'd better still be here when I wake up. I don't want to have to worry that you're off somewhere having a panic attack."

"Your confidence in my mental and emotional fortitude is gratifying, Sam, thank you."

Sam snorts and curls even closer against Alan's side.

"Just don't go anywhere," he says.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

It's not even night, but Sam dreams.

It's as vivid a vision as ever, Rinzler and Clu fighting to fill him at the same time, and suddenly all Sam can think is that this is wrong. This isn't Alan. They don't listen when he tells them to stop, though. They just fuck into him harder. They hold him still between them, and it feels good, it _always_ feels good, but this time all Sam can seem to say is, "No."

They still make him come, and afterwards they hold him. Except the floor is too soft, and the gentleness is out of place, and there's warmth all along Sam's side instead of the press of cold circuits, and when he opens his eyes he's not on the Grid at all, he's—

Oh, fuck, he's in his own bed, in his own apartment, and the warmth pressed all along his side is _Alan_. Alan, whose arm is currently fit comfortably beneath Sam's head, whose chest is rising and falling beneath Sam's hand, whose eyes are wide open and watching Sam with unmasked concern.

" _Fuck_ ," Sam breathes, squeezing his eyes shut and rolling away. Alan lets him go, and Sam can feel him sitting up now, shifting beneath the sheets, and Sam knows from the tingle along his spine that he's still being watched. "What did you hear?" he asks, even though he doesn't want to know the answer.

"Nothing," says Alan. "Unless you want to talk about it."

"Fuck," Sam says again, more quietly this time. He doesn't want to talk about it. He really, desperately doesn't. But he rolls onto his back, meets Alan's eyes. "It's a long story," he says instead of offering a more direct explanation. "And you wouldn't believe most of it."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that," Alan says.

"No, seriously," Sam says. He lets his eyes slip away from Alan's face and lock onto a water-stained patch of ceiling. "Trust me, this would sound nuts even for me." Alan probably _would_ believe him. Especially now. But it's still not a story Sam wants to tell.

"If there's someone you want me to shoot, I've got a .45 in my safe at home." Alan says the words lightly, but Sam knows a promise when he hears one. He knows he's not imagining the undercurrent of quiet violence that could turn Alan's idle offer into a murder charge.

"Thanks," he says, surprised—and a little guilty—at how much better the offer makes him feel. "But don't worry about it. There's no one left for you to kill." Alan's eyes go wide, and Sam hastens to add, "Oh god, no, don't worry. I haven't killed anyone. Like I said, it's a long story."

"Sounds like it," Alan agrees. The worry still hasn't left his face, and Sam sighs tiredly. He's not going to get away with stubborn silence this time. Not if he wants Alan back in his bed again anytime soon.

He thinks it through slowly, knowing Alan won't rush him. He doesn't have to tell the whole story in order to make Alan understand. He doesn't have to dredge up the implausible details—doesn't have to relive them himself, moment by moment, all too vivid in the waking world.

He locks his eyes on a corner of the ceiling—because like hell is he going to look at Alan when he admits these things—and finally he says, "It's just… It can feel good, you know? Even if you don't want it to."

Alan is silent. Sam knows damn well he's expected to continue. He takes a moment. Wills the tightness from his chest. He ignores the phantom ache in his wrists—in other places—and takes a deep, slow breath.

He lets it out just as slowly and eventually says, "There were two of them. They knew what they were doing." ' _One of them looked just like you_ ,' he doesn't say. He also doesn't mention that he might have been begging for it by the end. He sure as fuck doesn't admit that they both had him at once.

A shiver runs the length of his body anyway. He feels the weight of Alan's gaze on the side of his face, and wonders if Alan can tell just by looking at him—if he looks somehow dirtier because of it.

He sure as hell _feels_ like it shows.

"Anyway, it," he pauses when his voice lodges in his throat—takes a moment to swallow and cough. "It wasn't that bad." That's a lie. It was terrible. It was incredible. It was the most amazing orgasm he's ever felt, and the most fucked-up experience of his life.

"Sam—"

"I don't want you to pity me, okay?"

"You know I wouldn't." Alan's voice is quiet and hurt, and now Sam feels even worse.

"I know, I just… It's a huge fucking mess, and I don't want you to think it's your problem."

Alan is silent in a way Sam interprets to mean, ' _Like hell it's not my problem_ ,' but since he doesn't say the words, Sam's got no call to rebuff them.

"Alan, I can handle this. I _am_ handling it. I just need time."

Alan shifts beside him, and Sam turns, finds him looking guilty and uncomfortable and—inexplicably—ready to bolt.

"Sam, if you needed time—"

"Oh, no," Sam says. "No you don't." He's faster than Alan—manages to scoot across the bed and pounce before Alan can do anything stupid like stand up and walk away.

"Sam!" Alan protests, startled as Sam crawls right into his lap. The sheets fall aside, and Alan leans as far back as space permits—which isn't very, with the headboard so close behind him—as Sam settles stubbornly above him.

"When I said I needed time, I didn't mean between us," Sam informs Alan as blandly as he can. "You don't need to protect me."

"Don't take this the wrong way," says Alan, relenting enough to touch Sam at least—to raise a hand to his face and brush his thumb over Sam's cheek. "But I don't think that's a habit I'll be able to break any time soon."

" _Ever_ , you mean," Sam says, and has to smile.

Alan smiles back sadly, and lets his thumb trail lower, across Sam's lower lip. The tenderness of the gesture leaves Sam's throat tight with emotion, and it's all he can do to keep the light smile on his face.

"I can't help worrying about you," Alan confesses. Then his expression darkens into something shadowed and intense, and he says, "And if there _were_ anyone left to kill? I would do it in a heartbeat."

Fuck, he really means that. Looking in his eyes now, Sam has no trouble conjuring up the surreal image of Alan sighting down the barrel of a gun and blowing someone's head off.

"Don't say that," Sam whispers. "Alan, that's not you. That's the last fucking thing I would want you to do for me." God, the thought of that much blood on Alan's hands makes Sam feel sick straight down to his soul, and he's suddenly even more relieved that there's no one in this world for him to point fingers at.

Alan's hand slips from Sam's face and slides down, towards his chest, over his heart.

"It's not just you I'd be doing it for."

"Oh," says Sam. He honestly hadn't considered that.

Alan looks a little sheepish now, at least. Like he hadn't intended the threat ( _offer_ ) to reach Sam's ears. Like he's maybe wondering if his confession makes Sam think less of him.

Sam tries to convey with nothing but his eyes that there's no way Alan will ever have to worry about that. From the way the corner of Alan's mouth twitches upwards—the pale flash of relief behind Alan's eyes—Sam thinks he might even have succeeded.

He leans in, then. Slides his hands into Alan's hair, keeps his eyes open as he presses a kiss—slow, deep, meaningful—to Alan's mouth.

When Sam pulls back, Alan watches him without speaking.

"Are we okay?" Sam asks. He feels a little ridiculous for needing the reassurance—for needing to hear Alan _say_ it—but he knows the nervous stutter of anxiety in his chest won't fade until he does.

Alan considers him for a moment—cocks his head to the side and regards Sam like a particularly interesting specimen in a petri dish. Then he shifts and shoves simultaneously, toppling Sam to the side and following—landing them in a crooked sprawl across Sam's bed.

Alan's weight settles on top of him, and Alan's fingers are at his jaw, and then Alan kisses him with a sharp, abrupt confidence that takes Sam's breath away. Alan's tongue licks into his mouth, teases Sam's lower lip, delves deep enough to lay unmistakable claim, and Sam just opens wider and accepts everything Alan is offering.

He lets his knees fall apart, feels Alan settle between his legs, but this isn't about kicking off round two. This is about getting as close as physically possible and holding on.

Sam's not letting go any time soon.

Eventually Alan props himself on his elbows and pulls back. He doesn't go far. Just puts enough distance between them to look Sam in the eye—gaze dipping briefly, distractedly to Sam's mouth before rising again.

"We're more than okay," Alan says, fingers playing idly across Sam's collarbone.

"Good," says Sam, taking Alan's hand in his and raising it to his face so he can press a nuzzling kiss to Alan's palm. "That's good."

Alan looks dazed. He's staring at Sam's mouth again, wide-eyed and interested and warm in a way that makes Sam blink and reevaluate.

Maybe it's time for round two after all.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

"You could stay the night," Sam says hours later, when it's late evening and the sun has set behind the buildings on the horizon. Tomorrow is Sunday. And of course, on a normal Sunday, Alan would be right there at Encom, same as every other day of the week. But they both know he doesn't _have_ to be there, and Sam intends to make sure Alan takes advantage of his weekends from now on.

They're both dressed again—Alan insisted he was _not_ going to eat dinner naked in bed, much as Sam tried to convince him otherwise—and the invitation makes Alan smile at Sam with fond amusement.

"Sam, I've been wearing the same suit for two days. I have to go home for a change of clothes if nothing else."

"Oh," Sam says, feeling suddenly guilty. If Alan is still wearing yesterday's suit—the suit he had on in the office when Sam kissed him, the suit he was still wearing at the bar when he hunted Sam down—then he didn't even _try_ to sleep last night. The thought makes Sam feel like a dick.

He doesn't think he has it in him to apologize, though. Not and really mean it. He can't bring himself to apologize for the course of events that brought them here—to a lazy dinner that's more like breakfast, Alan watching him with a disbelieving smile over Sam's tiny kitchen table.

Sam's body aches in all the right places, and if he can't persuade Alan back into his bed tonight he's going to be incredibly disappointed.

But he doesn't say those things out loud. He can't begrudge Alan a change of clothes, and inviting himself over to Alan's place would be… well, honestly, it wouldn't be that far out of the ordinary before, but it feels different now. It feels like he shouldn't just presume.

The silence that settles between them isn't uncomfortable, though, and Sam is surprised when Alan clears his throat as though he's got something awkward to say.

Sam raises his eyes from his glass of water and finds Alan watching him.

"I don't mean to pry," Alan says uncertainly. "But… whatever happened with Quorra?"

Sam blinks, brain processing the question even while he fails to understand the source of Alan's curiosity.

"She moved out a while ago. Three weeks, maybe? She accepted a gig at ParaCorps." Sam smiles dryly, dropping his chin into his hand. "She said it was nothing personal, but I still think she took a job with the competition just to see the look on my face when she told me."

"Oh," Alan says, though he looks more confused than satisfied by the answer. His brow crinkles in a baffled expression, and one corner of his mouth turns down.

"What's wrong?" Sam asks, trying to work out the source of Alan's confusion.

"Nothing," says Alan, expression smoothing out slightly, but eyes still flash with confusion. "I just meant… between you two. It seemed like things were going well."

"Sure, I guess if you…" And then it hits him, right between the eyes, and the thought is so ridiculous Sam has to choke back a laugh to answer, "Oh, no. No, no, no, god no. Alan, Quorra was never my girlfriend."

Alan blinks at him as though he's just said something completely implausible.

"But she moved in with you."

And yeah, Sam supposes it probably _did_ look a little strange from where Alan's been sitting. Quorra turned up out of nowhere one night, and suddenly Sam had a live-in roommate. A smart, pretty, affectionate roommate with a tendency to wander around the apartment in Sam's spare bathrobe.

"She's just a friend who needed somewhere to crash for a while. Once she got her feet under her, she found a place of her own."

He can see so much curiosity shining in Alan's eyes. Alan wants to know who Quorra really is, how she fits into Sam's life. But he doesn't ask, and Sam feels both guilty and grateful for the reprieve.

"Alan," he says, quiet and suddenly serious. "I'm not interested in women."

Alan blinks at him and says, "You never mentioned that before."

Sam shrugs, aiming for casual but probably falling short, and says, "It didn't seem particularly relevant considering I wasn't bringing home anyone worth introducing." Light as he tries to make the comment sound, Alan still flinches, and Sam is back to feeling like a grade-A asshole.

He's not going to apologize, though. Not for this one. If Alan wants him, he's going to have to take the whole package—which includes a relationship history that some might consider promiscuous.

From the look Alan is leveling at him across the table now—sharp, intense, maybe even a touch possessive—Sam figures that won't be a problem in the long run.

"So," he says, slouching back in his chair and doing his damnedest to lighten the heavy mood that's settled into the air. "I'm getting trumped by the promise of a fresh suit tonight. I can live with that. You'll come back tomorrow though, right?"

"Or," Alan says, eyes cutting to the side in a way that almost looks coy. "You could come home with me."

And that's a no-brainer if Sam's ever heard one.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Sam already has a key to Alan's place, thanks to the man's overprotective streak over the years—his need to know Sam would have a place to stay if he ever managed to burn down his apartment or something.

Alan's house is enormous. Three stories tall, wide and sprawling, with a two-car garage even though Sam has only ever known Alan to own one car at a time.

He parks his bike in the open space, and it occurs to him just how convenient this could be.

Alan is waiting in the doorway at the back of the garage, backlit by the glow from the kitchen beyond. He holds the door for Sam, closes and locks it behind them once Sam is through. Sam kicks his boots off on the welcome mat by the wall—last thing he needs is to be scuffing up Alan's flawless mahogany floors.

He raises his eyes and finds Alan watching him. There's a warm expression on his face—heat and affection—and a quiet, disbelieving awe that he hides quickly but still manages to leave Sam feeling flushed and self-conscious.

His first instinct under the intensity of that look is to put his best poker face on and turn aside—to brush it off before the moment can make him give away just how damn vulnerable he feels right now.

But this is Alan. And Sam forces himself to meet his eyes without flinching.

There are barely three feet separating them, and Sam crosses that space now, wraps his fingers in the collar of Alan's long tan coat. He smiles, spine tingling pleasantly at the way Alan smiles back, and then his eyes drift closed as he leans in for a kiss.

Alan's mouth is warm and obliging, and when Sam presses his tongue shamelessly past Alan's lips, he's rewarded with the feeling of fingers threading through his hair, of Alan's other hand warm at his neck, a soft but insistent pressure guiding him closer.

By the time Sam pulls back for air he's got his arms around Alan's shoulders.

He doesn't let go. Neither does Alan.

"This is going to be complicated, isn't it?" Sam murmurs. He's so close Alan's features are a little blurry, a little out of focus, but he still catches the bemused quirk of eyebrows Alan gives him in response.

"That might be the understatement of the decade," Alan says. Not the century, Sam notes. Alan has never been prone to hyperbole.

"The media will flay us alive if they get their hands on this," Sam adds unnecessarily. "You a hell of a lot worse than me."

"We'll be careful," says Alan. "They can't touch us if they don't find out." And there's a glint in his eyes, dark and fierce, that makes Sam feel bad for the first nosy reporter who tries.

"I can do discreet," says Sam. Then, before Alan can give him a skeptical look, "Believe it or not."

Alan kisses him again instead of dignifying that with a response. Sam doesn't mind.

"So," he says when Alan finally lets him go. "Don't you have a hot tub around here somewhere?"

 

\- — - — - — - — -

The dreams don't vanish overnight. He still wakes up a mess sometimes, even when he's waking up in Alan's bed as often as his own.

He still remembers all too vividly in the moments when his guard is down.

But time is like physical distance. The Grid—the things that happened to him there—become a stubborn part of the past, and Sam's got his hands full with the present and future.

Encom lures Quorra away from ParaCorps. Sam would have supported the decision if anyone had bothered to ask him, but it somehow seems fitting that HR makes the call without so much as a nudge.

"This was your plan from the start, wasn't it," Sam accuses when she wanders into his office her first day on the job.

"Yes, Sam," she says, managing to look fond even as she rolls her eyes. "I accepted a job with your main competitor in the cunning hope of being offered a position at Encom."

Sam's still not sure he would put it past her. If he hadn't hauled ass to an early promotion, she'd be his superior right now.

"I thought as much," Sam says, picking up his suit jacket from the back of his chair and shrugging into the sleeves. Turns out he hasn't given up on the garment yet after all. "So. Lunch. How do you feel about Italian?"

"I'd rather have Chinese," she says. "Will Alan be joining us?"

"Damn right he will," says Sam, and ushers her out the door.

 

\- — - — - — - — -  
 **EPILOGUE**  
\- — - — - — - — -

"Oh my god," Alan whispers. His eyes are wide behind his glasses, lashes and cheeks lit slightly by the soft blue glow emanating from the frames.

For some reason Sam finds it amusing that the glasses followed them into this digital space. It seems like optical impairments should be irrelevant here.

"Welcome to the Grid," Sam says, smiling as he moves to stand beside Alan, close enough that their arms brush together.

The sea laps at their heels, the beach spreading out in both directions, as far as the eye can see. Tron City shines tall and bright in the distance straight ahead, and Sam feels a shameless surge of pride at the sight. The intact, graceful contours are as much his now as they are his dad's. He's done a lot of rebuilding in the past year and a half—an endless rewriting of corrupted code since he finally decided he needed to return to the Grid.

Quorra has been at his side every step of the way. Sam feels a twinge of guilt at the fact that she's not here now, but he remembers the look she gave him before she activated the laser controls. He remembers her eyes finding Alan, then returning to Sam, and the knowing smile that twisted warmly across her face as she initiated the final sequence.

"This is…" Alan trails off now, lost for words. "You tried to tell me, but I never imagined…"

"I know," says Sam. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner."

Keeping the secret had been nearly impossible. Sam wonders, sometimes, at the fact that Alan let him get away with it.

"It's incredible," Alan breathes. Sam shifts his gaze from the glowing horizon, turning instead to watch Alan's face as he takes it all in.

"He would've wanted you to see it," Sam murmurs. "I know he'd have shown you himself if things hadn't gone wrong."

"Thank you," Alan whispers. The shadow of old pain lingers in his eyes, but there's something new beside it now. Bright understanding, quiet awe, a spark of something like closure.

"Come on," Sam says. He reaches for Alan's hand and threads their fingers together. Alan glances down, then up to Sam's face. A quiet smile quirks at the corner of his mouth.

"Where?" Alan asks.

"That way," Sam says, nodding towards the city. "I've got a lot to show you."

Alan's smile goes from a hinting quirk to an actual expression, soft and warm, and he squeezes Sam's hand in his.

"Lead the way."


End file.
